


you mustn't break and you mustn't bend

by crookedspoon



Series: Exchange Fics [39]
Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Blindfolds, F/F, Knifeplay, No Man's Land (DCU), Object Insertion, Power Dynamics, Restraints, Riding Crops, Wax Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-21
Updated: 2019-08-21
Packaged: 2020-09-23 17:03:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20343604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crookedspoon/pseuds/crookedspoon
Summary: They have a system in place. It's a necessity in this new, broken world of theirs.





	you mustn't break and you mustn't bend

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ictus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ictus/gifts).

They have a system in place. They must. People depend on them now.

When Barbara had decided Gotham would be hers, she hadn't considered the responsibility that would come with it: responsibility for those weaker than her. For those too weak to defend themselves from her enemies.

Because she has many. They want her food, her water, her ammunition. They want her people for cheap labor. But most of all, they want her dead, and they will stoop to anything to hurt her.

Barbara can't fault them for making those mistakes, but she _can _retaliate. Tabitha is more than willing to be her errand girl if it means she gets to have some fun. Torture, amputation, bullet holes – anything that'll make her prey scream bloody murder. Because that's what she's about. It's what she's _good _at.

She makes Barbara scream, too, at night, behind closed doors, where the barkeepers might hear but be unable to get to her in time if Tabitha were to betray her again. That is by design.

So far, it's a truce. So far, it's fun. So far, it's a necessary balance that keeps Barbara's jealous ambition in check and satisfies Tabitha's lust for control.

So far, it's working.

In a world where you have to work with what you got, because outside help is slow to arrive (if it's coming at all) everything is valuable. Everyday items – easily accessible before – have become precious commodities. The stores, those that had not collapsed, have been gutted to the last shelf, and the loot sold to the highest bidder. Everything, more so than before, has a price now.

But it's not money that's important now. 

It's trust. The one thing you cannot put a price on. The one thing in shorter supply than anything else these days. Barbara and Tabitha would know. Their relationship with it has always been fraught at best; they're autonomous, self-styled "big girls who can handle themselves," who get what they want, if not when they want it, then eventally; and if they don't, to hell with anyone who stands in their way.

That's how they used to present themselves. Trust didn't feature into the equation. Trust was a weakness that needed to be excised.

To spit on trust was an extravagance of the past, a way to signal that you were powerful and wealthy enough not to need it. Now, power comes from those who trust in you, and yes, even from those you trust, if grudgingly. Because it's a necessity.

With the collapse of communcation and supply lines, it's become ever more difficult to confirm rumors, to deliver medical aid, to basically see beyond the walls of the fortress that their night club has become. 

Despite the ruin surrounding her on all sides, Barbara still sits on her favorite bar stool as though it were a throne, straight-backed and unapproachable, sipping scotch from a crystal glass. She tries not to let the strain of ruling what has become a kingdom of ashes show. When Tabitha walks in with a severe clacking of her heels and a hypnotic sway of her ponytail, Barbara's frozen smile thaws. Becomes softer. Relieved.

Her knight errand has returned. Safe and sound. Ready to be used another day. 

(Ready to use her.)

Tabitha has a different gift for her each time: weapons crates, information on the latest food drops, the heads of Penguin's lieutenants that she tosses at Barbara's feet. Those make her smile brightest. They're both very much invested in grinding that little snake to dust. Whatever inconveniences him is bound to please Barbara.

She does not say thanks, nor does she need to. Such is the nature of their partnership. Tabitha gets her due in private, away from loose lips and prying eyes, when Barbara is hers alone. Not just a fleeting taste, but all of her, laid bare.

Thin strips of cloth tie her wrists to the headboard and dig into her skin. She could have freed herself at the beginning of the night, when her fingers were still nimble and she not trembling with desire.

Tabitha takes her sweet time with her, as if tormenting her for every demeaning task she had to endure outside of the bedroom. Barbara shivers when her riding crop caresses her thighs, so close to where she needs it; supresses huffs of laughter as it tickles her sides, threatening to ruin the mood; and arches into the touch as it crests her chest. She can't see the path it travels or where it will land next. A blindfold hides the warm candle light from view, like a whisper against her cheeks and lashes.

Her bonds and the blindfold are all the fabric that covers her. Not that she would want to be covered with anything more right now. She is hot, sweating and swollen, and parched for the taste of Tabitha on her lips.

There are soft, pleasant taps against her breasts that she arches into, then a sharp crack onto her left nipple that makes her suck in a breath. Barbara is tugging at her bonds, trying to inch lower to where Tabitha is balancing herself on her knees, desperate for some delicious friction.

Tabitha smacks her other nipple with the riding crop, and sparks of pleasure zip straight to Barbara's core. She moans. If Tabitha knows how to do one thing well it's how to drive her mad with desire.

Tabitha's hand is warm even against Barbara's overheated skin when she presses it on her stomach, pressing her back flat to the mattress again. Barbara's breath is shallow in anticipation and her hips twitch, encouraging the hand to travel lower.

"Shhh," Tabitha soothes, caressing Barbara's hip gently. "Settle."

The mattress dips as Tabitha shifts her weight, and the next moment, a droplet of something hot falls onto Barbara's sensitive skin. She hisses and tries to squirm away, but Tabitha's knees are bracketing her hips, barring her escape. All she can do is wiggle her chest from side to side a little and endure the wax dribbling onto her sternum. 

Every twitch of her legs against Tabitha's warm back stokes the fire between her thighs. Every movement feels insanely good, yet is not enough.

Tabitha bends low, blows on the cooling wax and kisses the skin around it, mere brushes of her lips that are all the more intense for their softness. 

The next moment, she feels something sharp peel off the dried wax from her chest. It's not Tabitha's nails. Barbara's breath quickens.

When the wax is mostly gone and only a thin film film remains on her breasts, Tabitha rakes her nails down Barbara's breastbone. Barbara jolts and cries out. Reams of fire blossom on her chest, pulsating pain outward in waves.

Tabitha's knife lightly follows the trail to Barbara's stomach. It's fluttering from the tension, and her breath is all but whistling in her tight throat.

Then, a cut, the blade dragging across her skin. Barbara gasps. A bead of blood gathers and slides down her side. Tabitha runs the tip of her knife over Barbara's skin again, slowly, as if savoring drawing more blood. Barbara tries not to squirm, but it's difficult. Her cunt is pulsating, her essence trickling onto the sheets. She needs Tabitha to stop playing already.

The knife trails lower, gliding to the inside of one thigh. Barbara can all but see the pink lines marring her skin but not breaking it. She is trembling and unable to stop herself.

The bed shifts as Tabitha leans over Barbara to capture her mouth in a quick kiss. Her fingers – Barbara hopes it's her fingers – trace her folds.

"Do you want this?" Tabitha whispers against her lips.

Barbara exhales a ragged breath. Then she nods. She would take anything Tabitha gave her now, if only it would make her come.

"Good girl," Tabitha purrs and it should rankle Barbara to be called girl, but she has no presence of mind to be offended. All pretenses gone, her head is wrapped up in the feel of the knife handle sliding inside her. It's long and thin and hard, too unwieldy to touch all the right places inside her, but Barbara clenches around it anyway, as though it might bring her the release she needs.

Tabitha fucks her with it, placing open-mouthed kisses against her neck, her breasts, her stomach; Barbara is keening by the time Tabitha's hot breath puffs against her vulva.

She cries out when Tabitha's tongue flicks out against her clit. The knife handle slips out of her and for a moment, Barbara mourns the loss, clutching at nothing. The next, two of Tabitha's fingers invade her, and Barbara throws her head back in bliss. Tabitha crooks her fingers just right and takes Barbara to the edge, screaming with joy, but it isn't until she drags her tongue from her opening to her clit and sucks the nub into her mouth that Barbara comes with a full-body shudder.

Tabitha lets her ride it out against her face and drags her fingers leisurely in and out of her until Barbara no longer chases them with her hips. She feels like hot wax inside, liquid and molten.

Tabitha presses a kiss to one of Barbara's knees as she gets up. A moment later, there's a swish of cloth and one of her arms falls free. The second follows not long after. Pins and needles shoot through into her fingertips. Barbara can barely rotate her wrists to work circulation back into her hands.

When she has enough feeling back in them, she lifts her blindfold. Even the low light of the room hurts her eyes. Barbara expects to find herself a mess of scars and blood, but her stomach is as unmarred as it had been before they started. Between her legs, a simple butter knife lies in the rumpled sheets.

Tabitha follows her puzzled gaze with a soft smirk of her own.

"I had it iced," she explains and presses the blade of the knife against the inside of Barbara's thigh. It's cool against her hot skin. "The cold gives you the impression of being cut."

Barbara lets her head thud back against her pillow, a puff of laughter on her lips. She wouldn't have minded the scars. They already carry many by each other's hand. It's the itch of the healing process she dislikes.

Trust, she thinks as she reaches out to stroke Tabitha's hair. It's a liability in the wrong person. But in the right person, it means strength and support.

Maybe they can make this work after all.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "Siren Song" by The Crüxshadows.


End file.
